


No Excuses, No Apologies, No Regrets

by golden_gardenias



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-12 02:47:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2092740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/golden_gardenias/pseuds/golden_gardenias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My look inside Brian's head during the season two premiere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Excuses, No Apologies, No Regrets

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published on MidnightWhispers in January 2014, under the penname NicJ.

Fuck him.

Fuck that fucking Chris Hobbs son of a bitch.

Fuck him for thinking he had any right to fucking touch Justin.  Fuck him for trying to hurt him.  Fuck _anyone_ who thinks they can hurt him.

God, who the _fuck_ could look at him, look at his smile— _that goddamn fucking smile_ —and swing a fucking _bat_ —

No.

Don’t think about that.

Don’t think about all the blood, _his_ blood, bleeding so much, oh God—

Breathe.

 

Fuck Justin Taylor.

Fuck him.

Fuck him for being so fucking hot— _beautiful_ —and so fucking strong and determined and brave.

Fuck him for making me fucking care about him, about what happens to him.

And if he fucking dies on me, I’ll fucking kill him.

 

* * *

 

He thrashes in his bed, in the clutches of a nightmare.  I can see the crease between his brows, see the frown etched on his face, can practically hear his whimpering through the glass.

I have to sit down.

He’s in pain, and I can’t help him.

I inhale the poppers I snuck in, trying to find some kind of escape.  Trying to get these fucking images out of my head, trying to forget all the blood, trying not to hear that sickening _crack_ —

The nurse on duty is talking to me, telling me that Miguel was throwing a ball with him and that Justin still gets _frustrated_ when he can’t do anything the way he used to.

Well gee, I wonder why.

She says that it would help Justin if he knew I visited him every night.

No.

Don’t tell him.

Then they’ll all know my secret.  They’ll know that when I’m burying myself in all the nameless, meaningless tricks that I’m wishing they were him.  They’ll know that I’m up all night fucking because I can’t sleep.

They can’t know that I care.

I take out a cigarette, but she stops me.

Bitch.

Who made up the fucking rule that you can’t smoke in a hospital, anyway?

 

Now Michael's in my loft, berating me.

He doesn’t know anything.

None of them know a fucking thing.

I take off the bloody rag that was once a silk scarf and fold it carefully, place it gently on my bed.

I can feel Mikey’s eyes on me, can picture his bewilderment, his curiosity.  He has questions, but he won’t ask them.

Because now he knows.

 

Michael and I go to Woody’s and he tries to argue with me there, too, calling me a mess and almost calling me out on not seeing Justin.

I don’t want to think about this right now.

There’s nothing I can do for him.

When I come back from the bathroom there’s a crowd in the corner.  Mikey’s standing in front of whoever’s the center of it, talking to them.

Oh shit.

He’s here.

Michael’s saying something to me, but I hardly hear him.

_Justin’s here._

What the fuck is he doing in Woody’s?

I want the guys crowded around him to move, get away from him.  He looks so scared.

He looks at me and I can feel all my walls crumbling down, all my carefully laid defenses wearing thin.  Everything comes flooding back to me in the single moment it takes for his eyes to meet mine.

Dancing together, how beautiful he looked, how graceful he was.

Walking back to the jeep together, that fucking radiant smile.

That kiss.

Watching him walk back.

Seeing _him_ come up behind him.

_Crack_.

 

Justin’s telling me all the sordid details about his injury, telling me that if Chris Hobbs had hit him a fraction of an inch this way or that way, or if he had hit him harder, Justin would either be a vegetable or dead.

Thank God for small favors, I guess.

He’s relaying details that I already know because he thinks I need to be caught up on what’s been going on with him.

I already know everything he’s going to say, but hearing it come from his mouth is an entirely different experience.  Watching him awkwardly maneuver his left hand instead of trying to use his right is unnerving, especially knowing the reason why.

He says that he can’t remember anything about that night, that all he knows for sure is that I said I wouldn’t come to prom with him.

And if that doesn’t just make you feel like shit.

Now he’s recounting the details of that night, like he’s reading them from a card.  So detached, so disconnected.  Like he was never a part of it at all.

_But they said that you showed up after all. And that we danced together.  And that it was amazing._

_Daphne said that we were amazing._

He smiles then, and it does things to me, things that I didn’t even think were possible.  God, the little twat’s ruined me.

_**We were alright.** _

He smiles wider, for some reason, like he expected me to say that.

But then it fades.

_Shit.  I wish I could remember that._

He looks so defeated.  Part of me wants to get closer to him, comfort him, hold him, even.

So I scratch the back of my neck uncomfortably and walk to the other side of the kitchen.

_And then I walked with you, back out to your jeep._

Oh God.

_And that’s when Chris Hobbs came out with the baseball bat and—_

_**Thought you said you couldn’t remember anything.** _

_I can’t.  This is just stuff other people have told me._

_It’s like…a story that happened to somebody else._

_**Yeah, well I can remember.** _

_**I can remember everything.** _

No matter how hard I try to forget.

**_I saw him.  He was coming after you with the bat.  But he was moving too fast and you were too far away.  And I ran, but there was no time to stop him.  And then he swung, and it was too late._ **

**_There was nothing I could do._ **

**_And then you just laid there on the cold cement._ **

I can see it all playing out in my head—the loud crack, the dull thud of Justin’s body falling, all the blood on his face.

_It wasn’t your fault._

Justin comes around to stand in front of me, awkwardly placing his left hand on my shoulder.

_It wasn’t your fault._

We stare at each other for a few seconds, and then he reaches around to hug me.  I wrap my arms around him, and I want desperately to lose myself in him, but I can’t.

There’s nothing I can do, not even for myself.

 

We’re quiet as I drive him home, each of us lost in our thoughts.  Any attempts at conversation had been stilted and uncomfortable, so we just let each other think.

I don’t want to keep thinking about this.

_Thanks_.

_**For what?** _

_The ride, saving me._

_**I didn’t save you.** _

_I meant tonight.  So…will I see you again?_

He sounds so nervous and so much like he did after that first night, so vulnerable.

_**Yeah, you’ll see me.** _

_Well don’t wait too long.  At this rate who knows how long I’ll be around?_

I know he means it as a joke, but his words are like a kick in the gut.

I can hear his mother freaking on him, can hear his uncaring reply.

And I can see the withering glances she sends my way before I drive myself back to my loft and drink myself into oblivion.

 

* * *

 

 I spend the better part of an hour standing in front of my bathroom mirror, trying to convince myself not to go to Chris Hobbs’ sentencing, telling myself to just go along with what everyone thinks of me, convince them even more that I don’t give a shit.

It doesn’t work, and I wind up walking in late.

I don’t want to hear about what this asshole judge thinks about Hobbs’ motivations, about how a boy of his “moral upbringing” was “approached sexually by a fellow student” and therefore “unduly provoked” when said student brought his “male lover” to the prom and engaged in a “highly provocative dance.”

It’s all bullshit.

And I don’t know why I let myself think that justice would be served today.

They want us all to die.  They blame us for flaunting our lifestyle in their faces, but they’re the ones trying to shove religion and their so-called morality down our throats.  This prick blamed Justin, basically said that he brought this on himself, that he was asking for it.

No.

I can’t let him get away with this, and as appealing as taking a baseball bat to the fucker’s knee sounds, I have to be smart about it.

Because there’s no way in hell I’m going to fucking _march_.

Marches are bullshit, too.

 

_After spending fourteen hours glued to a toilet seat, the judge was unharmed, but badly shaken._

Yeah, I’ll bet.

Fucker.

 

* * *

 

I’m dreading breaking the news to Justin, but he already knows, somehow.

Debbie.

_I knew they’d let him go.  They don’t care about us, they want us all dead._

I don’t like hearing my jaded words coming out of his mouth.

_**Look, don’t think about it, okay?  Just focus on what you’re doing.** _

His mood’s affecting his performance, and it only frustrates him further.

_**Come on, you can do it.** _

_I can’t._

_**Yes you can, come on.** _

He tells Daphne she’s full of shit when she encourages him, and as funny as I think it is, I can’t laugh.  Neither can she, judging by the look on her face.

Mother Taylor pulls into the driveway and exchanges pleasantries, but I know what’s coming.  She tells Justin that she wants to talk to me, and he goes inside.

I brace myself for the barrage I know must be coming.

_The day the doctor sent him home from the hospital he said he’d never seen such a determined patient, and he asked me what it was that made him work so hard.  I knew, but I didn’t tell him.  It was you._

Jesus.  How the hell am I supposed to feel about that?

_Every day you didn’t come see him was more incentive for him to get better and get out so he could come see you._ _Of course what Justin didn’t know, and what I didn’t tell him was that you were there.  Every night._

I look up at her.  How could she know?

_The nurse on duty told me._

Figures.

_I want to thank you for that, but he’s home now, safe and sound, so there isn’t any reason anymore for you to watch over him, so…so I would like you to leave.  And never see him again._

I keep my calm mask up.  I can’t let her see any more than what she already has, can’t let anyone know how not okay with this I am, but—

_**I care about him.** _

_It was because of you he was almost killed._

Bitch.  I can see where she’s coming from, and the thought has crossed my mind before, but to have her just come out and say it like that, wielding the words like a weapon…that’s a fucking shitty thing to do.

And that’s coming from _me_.

_Forgive me for being so…blunt.  I’ve tried to accept him for who he is, to accept your world and that he’s part of it, I even tried to accept you, and as a result, I nearly lost him.  And I don’t intend to lose him again, so if you care about him, and I believe—I believe you do—you’ll do what I ask and return my son to me._

No.

I want to tell her that she can shove her half-assed attempts at acceptance up her ass, I want to tell her to fuck off…but she’s right.

I give her back the tennis ball we were using to practice and calmly walk to my car.

There’s two boys playing catch in the street, and I can’t help wondering if Justin will ever be able to do that again.

Or if I’ll be around to see it.

This story archived at <http://www.midnightwhispers.ca/viewstory.php?sid=2925>


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